Michael
Bay has made a career of flashy exercises in testosterone-driven excess of, yes,
the ambitious variety—even if that ambition is almost always undermined by
vapidity and stupidity. With Pain & Gain, the director has found material that is only
heightened by the traits that usually result in some form of disaster to one
degree or another, for here is a film about people who are enamored with the
flashiness of the criminal life, driven entirely by their belief that their
success is guaranteed by the mere fact of their testosterone-fueled existence,
and undone in their ambitious goals by their complete and utter stupidity.

The
film is a fine marriage of content and maker, and it's the first time we can see
evidence that perhaps Bay has a sense of humor about his role as a purveyor of
trash. Before this review turns into
a string of backhanded compliments, it must be stated outright that the film
works as the broadest kind of satire and a tonally, aesthetically spot-on piece
of storytelling. Pain & Gain is a sensationalistic dramatization of a true story,
and that's the right way to handle the material, given that the bizarre
real-life scenario is perfectly suited for the pages of a tabloid. This is sleazy, abrasive entertainment, and that's a compliment without
backhand.

There
is a perverse joy in watching a trio of narcissistic musclemen with barely half
a brain between the three of them but who believe themselves to be criminal
geniuses screw up at every possible turn. It's
a fundamental comic setup—characters' perceptions of themselves being
completely removed from reality—and while it really is a one-joke film, it's a
good joke and one that's bolstered by being based on actual events from the
mid-1990s (documented
in a series of articles by Pete Collins).

Even
the film can't quite believe that second part. At one point, one of our dim-bulb anti-heroes is assigned to burn the
fingerprints from two pairs of severed hands (The task itself is unnecessary,
given that the ultimate plan is to use lye to get rid of any and all physical
evidence; even that effort, it turns out, is a miserable, disgusting failure). The guy's plan is to use a charcoal grill to do so, and upon the other
two culprits' return to their hideout, they find their partner standing outside
in plain sight, wearing an apron and waving to a nearby security guard. All the while, the grill cooking the hands is standing right next to him
for anyone to see. At this point,
the film freezes, and a title reminds us, "This is still a true
story."

Keep in
mind that this grotesquery comes well into the film's final and admittedly
problematic act, but up until then—before these guys accidentally start a body
count—their actions are comparatively harmless—at least in that no one is
killed. They try, mind you (and
quite brutally torture a man in the process), but in case the point isn't clear,
these three are really terrible at everything they set their minds to
accomplish.

The
leader of the pack is Daniel Lugo (Mark Wahlberg), a bodybuilder trying to
obtain his slice of the American Dream (Ridiculously, he hopes for a lawn big
enough that it would necessitate a riding mower). His philosophy is a simple one: If you work at something, you will
achieve. It hasn't worked out too
well for him so far, having never progressed in his career beyond being a
personal trainer at a Los Angeles gym, so he decides to try a shortcut. He enlists the aid of Paul Doyle (Dwayne Johnson), a former convict and
cocaine addict, and Adrian Doorbal (Anthony Mackie), a steroid-using client, to
kidnap a wealthy sandwich shop owner named Victor Kershaw (Tony Shalhoub) and
force him to turn over all his assets to them.

Things
go wrong before they're able to kidnap him. Lugo comes up with a plan to raid Kershaw's home but doesn't take into
account that he might have guests. They
decide to nab him as he's heading to his car after shopping, only to have Doyle
and Doorbal wandering around an identical car looking for their target as he
walks right past them. It doesn't
get any better once they've abducted him, either. A blindfolded Kershaw is quick to figure out who has taken him after
noticing Lugo's distinctive cologne. Doyle,
a born again Christian, tries too hard to play nice with and convert Kershaw,
and the entire plan could come apart because Lugo has never heard of the concept
of a notary.

They
succeed on pure dumb luck and, in the movie's most horrifyingly funny sequence,
fail to do away with the man who could put them all in jail. The story is so outlandish that even the police don't believe it, and
it's only when a retired private detective (Ed Harris) becomes involved that the
trio's exploits come under any scrutiny. He's
convinced they'll act again, and yes, they even screw up the American Dream that
they work so lazily and behave so dreadfully to obtain.

The
screenplay by Christopher Markus and Stephen McFeely has nothing but contempt
for these men, but there's no highfalutin' moralizing here (By the time the film
does get around to moralizing, it's of the obvious kind—simply relating the
price of crime). Their weapon in Pain
& Gain is unadulterated and well-placed mockery in the face of dangerous
idiocy. Bay, with his bag of
callisthenic camera tricks at the ready, doesn't glamorize these fools in any
fashion; he's merely accentuating their absurd way of thinking.